


Don't Leave Me

by EasyTiga



Series: Wincest/J2 One shots [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Feelings, M/M, Mouth-to-Mouth, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Resuscitation, Subtext, Suicidal Thoughts, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga
Summary: Sam's just told Dean that he's going to Stanford. Dean's thoughts betray the words coming out of his mouth. He wants to die.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Wincest/J2 One shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686691
Comments: 5
Kudos: 114





	Don't Leave Me

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about how this conversation would have gone in my head. Now, I don't know if it would actually be this dark, but this is where my muse took me. So... 
> 
> I hope you like it.

_Don’t leave me._

The words are on the end of Dean’s tongue. He can’t get them out. If he says them, it will all become real.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Sam asks, voice tight; fragile.

“What do you want me to say, Sam? Stay? Go? It’s not my choice. It’s yours.”

_Don’t leave me._

Sam paces in front of him, shoulders drawn up, head lowered. Hesitation manifests like a muddied aura around him.

“It could be ours. You could come with me.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes training on the splitting wall. “You know I can’t.”

_Don’t leave me._

It’s all he wants to say. The only thing that matters, but he can’t snap them off the tip any more than he can stand.

A huff sounds, nails digging into clammy palms. “Can’t or won’t?” Sam spits the words, jaw clenched; eyes betraying his tone.

Doubt bubbles in Dean’s stomach. Doubt for his belief in the words he’s about to say.

“Dad needs me here. More than you do. It’s the job, Sam.”

_Don’t leave me._

The table booms, rocking. Sam’s fists pound the wood, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Don’t think about him. Think about _us._ If we just get out of here, we can have what–”

“No, Sam. Stop it. We can’t have it both ways. I won’t be any good out there. I’ll never belong in that world. I belong here, with Dad–”

“Is that _really_ what you want, Dean?” Sam questions, voice small, arms crossing. His shoulders slump, head dipping. Sam’s bottom lip quivers.

“Yes.”

_No. Don’t leave me._

Sam’s back meets the fridge, body still. “You’re choosing him?”

Dean can’t look. “Yes. Sammy, I’m–”

“Don’t,” Sam spits, teeth grinding, “Not ever. Not anymore.”

The unspoken demand hurts. Dean shrugs it off. He can learn to live with it. Alcohol will numb the sensation of a violent nest of hornets stinging him to death, someday.

“I’m a hunter, Sam. I’ll never be anything else.”

_Don’t leave me. I’m sorry. Please stay._

Silent teardrops pelt on the poorly maintained carpet, soaking into the sickly brown colour. Two heartbeats are erratic, tension building.

“You don’t know that. And you’ll never know because you won’t give it a chance. There’s something else out there other than hunting, Dean.”

“Not for me, there ain’t. This is it. I already know how my story ends. But I won’t stop you from finding a better one for yourself, Sam,” Dean says, scratching a mark into the table.

It’s quiet, except for harsh breathing. A light beams in through the window; another car peeling out of the lot. Sam’s shirt rides up as he wipes his eyes, creamy skin soaking up the rays.

Dean’s eyes track it. Guilt and self-loathing battle for dominance while his tongue slides over his bottom lip. They call a truce, agree to disagree.

Sam takes a seat opposite him, arms on the table, chin pointing down. Dean stops himself from reaching out, soothing the ache. He has no right.

“What if I don’t want your story to end that way?”

A shoulder lifts, face masking true feelings. “I don’t need your pity, Sam. Like I said, go or don’t go. It’s up to you. I can’t stop you, can I?”

_Say you’ll stay. Don’t leave me, Sam._

Something filters through Sam’s eyes. He chokes it down, another tear falling. “I’m not pitying you, Dean. I’m not. I just… I just want you to be safe.”

Dean’s heart clenches, heavy lids lowering. He knows Sam’s telling the truth, voicing the words he hears in his head every moment he looks at Sam.

“I’ve been doin’ just fine on my own so far.”

The tone is harsh. He instantly regrets it. Wishes he could take it back, pile it under a mountain of dirt. Dean’s mouth dries up, the air is too thick.

_I don’t mean it. Please don’t leave me._

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I don’t have your back?”

Sam’s angry, veins bulging in his thin wrists, hips bashing the table as he stands. Dean doesn’t rise to meet him; has to be the calm one.

“You’re the one going off to school, dude. Can’t have my back from a classroom, right?”

_I don’t mean any of this, Sammy. I’m hurting. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me behind._

He’s scowling when he wants to bite his lip to keep from talking.

Agony litters Sam’s frame, arms straining on the table.

“This… This is something I need to do, Dean,” Sam says, weak–searching, afraid. “Even if that means… If that means leaving you behind.”

Everything hurts. Dean’s throat is tight. His eyes sting, head throbbing like he’s being scalped.

“I’m not stopping you, man. This is your show. Do whatever makes you happy, _Sammy._ ”

The sneer is just wrong. It doesn’t belong there. That’s not how that word is said.

“I will be happy,” Sam replies, darkness mixing with the severity of his tone. “As soon as I get away from _here._ ”

Dean’s mind supplies the _from you_ , and he thinks right now would be a good time to die. Cold and bloody. Like he deserves.

“Well, what are you sittin’ round here for? Daylights wasting, buddy. Might as well get out of dodge now, since you’re so _eager_ to start your new, _sheltered_ life.”

“Screw you,” Sam says icily, mind somewhere else. “ _Screw. You. Dean.”_

_I’m not in my right mind, Sam. You have to see that. Please see that. I don’t want you to leave me._

“Screw yourself, Sam. I’ve done nothing but look out for you since the day you were born. Maybe you goin’ to college will be a good thing–I might finally get to have some _fun._ Do ya’ know how many chicks I’ve turned down because I had to look out for my pain in the ass little brother?”

Dean gets out of his seat, walks around the table. He hates himself. Hates everything that he’s doing. Wants to stop but can’t seem to.

“Shu–”

A hand slams on the table, trapping a shaking fist.

“So many I’ve lost count. The least you could do is be grateful for the sacrifices that I’ve made so that you weren’t _bored._ Or _lonely._ For Christ sake, dude, you were so damn _needy._ ”

_You’re not needy. I would always rather be with you than them. You have to believe me when I say I don’t know what I’m doing, Sammy._

Sam’s not looking at him. He’s hunched over, fist still beneath him. “Then I guess I’ll be doing us _both_ a favor, huh, Dean?”

Dean can’t breathe. His hand goes slack against Sam, knees giving out. The world spins and Sam shouts something, panic-stricken.

There’s a sharp _crack,_ blood rushing in his ears. A chair clatters against the side, feet shuffling. Cold hands press on his face.

No air drags in through his lips; turning blue, hoarse cries punching out.

Maybe he’s getting his wish. Maybe he’s dying.

“Dean! Hey, _Dean!_ ”

A body curls against him. Fingers in his hair, fresh tears rolling down his neck. He jerks on the floor, nails clawing at loose material, legs stuttering.

“Dean, _breathe._ Please don’t do this to me–not now.”

Sam’s desperate. He’s shaking him, confused; hurt, breaking. Dean wants to reach out, reassure him. Tell him everything is okay. He manages to curl his fingers around Sam’s wrists, pulling him on top of him as he writhes uncontrollably.

Bony knees straddle his waist, pert bum in his lap, lifted with the thrusts of his hips. Sam begs him to breathe. Begs him to hold on.

“Dammit, I am _not_ losing you,” Sam sounds far away, but his tone is strong, determined.

Soft lips close over his, borrowed air flowing into his lungs. Dean’s head pounds, chest crunching. Battle scars remind him of their existence.

“ _Breathe,_ Dean. Come on, man,” Sam implores him. He covers Dean’s nose, then his mouth again, exhaling with intent.

Dean’s legs kick. He still can’t suck the air in.

Knuckles dig into his chest and press. It hurts, but he can live with it. The fog won’t clear. The pain won’t subside; he wants to die.

“I’m not gonna let you die, you hear me, you asshole?” Sam’s hysterical. Tears are falling onto Dean’s clavicle, gathering in the dip, “I just need you to breathe for me. I can’t… Dean, I can’t lose you. _Not you._ ”

It’s all so heavy. His limbs weigh a ton. Arms and legs pulled too tight; groin rubbing on Sam when his hips spasm. Vision fading, darkness creeping in through the veil.

_Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me._

“Please, Dean! Please! Please breathe–I can’t… I won’t… I _don’t_ want to…”

Dry lips latch onto his once more, large expulsion of air chasing down his throat.

Hips still. Arms go lax. Lungs expand without prompting.

“Dean? Hey? Are ya’ with me?”

Concerned eyes hang above him, misty; feigning bravery.

Sam lifts Dean’s head, checks the back. He sighs with relief when it comes back dry.

Dean doesn’t feel the same. He wants to die.

He raises his hand and curls his fingers in the neckline of Sam’s ratty shirt, holds on for dear life. Just an expression. “Don’t leave me.”

A pained smile is the response. He knows it’s not enough, lungs work overtime to catch up as nausea sets in.

“Don’t… leave me,” he repeats, gripping tighter, turning his head to cough. “ _Please._ ”

A single tear travels down to his chin, falls onto his chest.

Sam throws his arms around him, pulls him close.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the only answer he’ll get. It won’t change. Everything hurts. He wishes that crack lead to more than he has the courage to do himself.

“I know,” Dean says, holding back tears.


End file.
